After the Rain
by Fleur27
Summary: Set immediately after the end of ep 215. Sophie asks Eliot to help her forget.


**Written For:** Two-prompt-birds-with-one story-stone on this one. I wrote this to fulfill prompt #18 (a balcony) in story_lottery on LJ and for anonymous' request for 'Eliot/Sophie ;; rain washes away the pain' in leveragekink on LJ.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing here and am just doing this for fun and to ease my new-found Leverage addiction.

**Spoilers:** Through episode 215, "The Maltese Falcon Job."

**Warning:** Rated NC-17 for explicit sexy times about half-way through. Yes, I can scarcely believe it myself. Thanks to celtic_flicka on LJ missmeggie on for the encouragement to step way outside my comfort zone and write something like this. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

They returned to Nate's apartment, their joyful reunion with Sophie marred by his absence. Sophie slumped into a chair while Hardison perched on the couch and flipped open his laptop, fingers skimming over the keys.

"I need to get cleaned up, but you all want to come up to my place for dinner, say around seven?" asked Eliot.

"No, man, I'm going to be busy here. Parker left a few surprises on the FBI server, which should help me spoof some IP addresses and credentials, so I can walk right into the Interpol servers and find out everything I need to know about Nate....but it's going to take awhile," said Hardison, his typing not slowing at all while he spoke.

Ordinarily, Eliot would've growled impatiently about geek spirals and plain English, but instead he mumbled a thanks to the hacker and looked at Parker. She was buzzing, her body practically vibrating with the coiled tension of the day's events.

"No. I have to be... somewhere else," she said and headed for the door, pausing only to pet Sophie's hair gently before she left.

"Sophie?" he asked, shifting his attention to the chair, where she sat with eyes closed and her fingers pressed into her temples.

She nodded slowly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure," she said, opening her eyes and managing a tired smile.

"Seven o'clock then, try not to be late," said Eliot as he left, knowing that he was fighting a losing battle on that front.

* * *

A few minutes before seven, Eliot took out the vegetables that the recipe required, washed them and put them on the granite countertop of the island. The kitchen took up a ridiculous percentage of the open plan living area, but he didn't mind because it was perfect, with its wide stretches of workspace, ample storage, and six burner/two oven professional-grade range.

Hardison had thought that Parker should take this apartment, since it was the only one with a balcony, but Eliot had fought hard for it. "No one who thinks fortune cookies are an acceptable breakfast can truly appreciate a kitchen like this," Eliot had said, more than once. In the end, Parker had just shrugged and said that as long as her apartment had air vents and windows that opened, she was happy.

Eliot went into the living area and turned on the ceiling fan, then opened the sliding doors to the balcony. The air was heavy and humid, carrying an almost electrical hum. One of the things he hated most about living in a city was not being able to see the horizon. He could imagine the dark clouds piling up on the edge and he always felt better when he knew what was coming.

It was the kind of evening that his mama always said could use a good storm to clear the air, wash out all the humidity and leave that clean, rainy smell behind. He'd missed the news, not wanting to see if Nate was the lead story, so he didn't know if they'd actually get any rain, but it was sorely needed.

Sophie arrived a half-hour late. He opened the door with a smile, appreciating that she didn't bother to explain or excuse herself. She was wearing black leggings and a lightweight, oversized grey sweater that looked both soft and expensive. She brushed past him, leaving a faint scent of vanilla in her wake.

Eliot followed Sophie into the kitchen and poured her a glass of wine. She settled onto one of the stools lining the outer edge of the island. He realized it was the first time he'd ever seen her without make-up or jewelry, her hair pulled back into a simple, messy ponytail.

Eliot picked up a knife and started to slice the peppers into thin strips. He could feel Sophie's eyes on him, but he remained focused on his work. They'd had a long day that hadn't ended the way anyone had expected. The silence was comfortable, but he knew it wasn't going to last.

He'd learned long ago that in a situation like this, it was best to pick the topic. Never let a woman start a conversation when there was tension in the air. It nearly always ended in tears.

"So, Tara was your plant, then? Your spy?" he asked, lifting his eyes from his work momentarily to gauge Sophie's reaction.

"Spy sounds so harsh, Eliot. I prefer... back-up plan or safety valve."

"You could've just asked me, you know. Having the team's back is my job." The vigor of his chopping rose slightly with his newly uncorked annoyance.

"Special Forces, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Eliot looked up. Using the back of his wrist, he brushed away some hair that had already managed to work its way out of his ponytail.

"What you did before." Sophie set her wineglass on the counter, one finger running over the rim as she looked up at him.

He looked away, spinning the knife in his hand. His face was perfectly blank when he looked back and met her gaze. "I can't talk about it."

"I know. My point is that you respect the chain of command."

"I guess," he replied with a half-shrug. Satisfied that she wasn't going to burrow into his past, he returned his attention to the peppers.

"How far off the rails would Nate have to go before you stepped in?"

Eliot's knife moved faster and he pressed his lips into a thin line, refusing to answer the question.

"You respect him, Eliot. And trust him," she said, her voice all soothing velvet. "That's a good thing. But it does give you a rather sizable blind spot."

The peppers were done, but he still had nothing to say, so he started dicing the carrots.

"I'm not criticizing," insisted Sophie, her tone forcing him to look at her. The sincere, nonjudgmental expression on her face matched her words. He knew she was right, but that didn't make it any easier to hear.

"You're fiercely protective of the team and Nate. You'll go down with the ship, which is a noble act that has its time and place. But I wanted to know for certain that _all_ of you were safe."

Eliot acknowledged her words with a small nod.

"How many FBI agents do you think you could've taken out?"

"Enough," said Eliot, remembering his plan. He'd had a few plans, and his favorite involved taking Sterling as a hostage.

"Enough for what?" asked Sophie, leaning forward.

"Enough to get you all out of there."

"And what about you?"

"_Insha' Allah_." Eliot put down the knife and gave her a sad smile, thinking of Rafeeq, a guy he'd known in Pakistan who told dirty jokes and smoked unfiltered clove cigarettes until the day that Allah hadn't been willing.

"_Insha' Allah_," she repeated as she gave him a smile with more of an edge to it. "That's awfully fatalistic, don't you think?"

He shrugged. Noticing that her glass was empty, he reached behind him for the bottle and emptied the last of it. He dropped the bottle into the recycling bin with an extra flourish, enjoying the breaking sounds as it hit bottom.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" asked Sophie.

He was about to decline her offer when he noticed the tight grasp she had on her glass and the tension in her shoulders. She could play it as cool and insouciant as she wanted; he could still see the truth.

Reaching under the counter, he pulled out a heavy cutting board and placed it in front of her. He went to the refrigerator and returned with a plate of veal cutlets, each one wedged between two sheets of wax paper. He placed a cutlet onto the cutting board and handed her a silver meat mallet.

"I need those to be a quarter-inch thick. Think you can manage it?"

She nodded and slid off the stool. She hefted the mallet a few times, trying to get a feel for its weight and bulk, before experimentally tapping the cutlet.

"It's already dead, Soph. Go ahead and put some muscle into it or we'll be here all night," he said with a grin as he leaned against the counter. He folded his arms and settled in to watch her work.

For the first cutlet, Eliot could see the concentration in her wrinkled forehead and pinched mouth. She was thinking about what she was doing, watching the thickness of the veal, carefully trying to stop when it was at the quarter-inch that he'd asked for.

She relaxed during the second cutlet, and he waited, knowing that the repetitive motion would lull her brain into that restful state where true thoughts and feelings swirled freely. Sure enough, during the third cutlet, her eyes drifted slightly to the left and she began muttering quietly.

"Of all the bloody thoughtless and ungrateful...so typical. So very typical," she said, her voice rising as she worked, the mallet now just a blur. "Calls me, tells me everything I needed to hear months ago, but they were just words, weren't they?"

Eliot raised an eyebrow. The phone call was news to him, but Sophie had moved onto the fourth cutlet and she was nearly shaking with anger. He held his questions and filed the information.

"After everything... I worked hard on a plan to rescue everyone and then he... he goes and gives himself up without a second thought of the consequences or any alternatives."

"Tactically, it was the right move, you know that," said Eliot.

Sophie shook her head and pounded the mallet down quicker and harder than he'd thought possible. "No. Hardison must have taken copies of the files. You know he couldn't resist something like that."

"So then what? We trade the files for Nate, give up the only leverage we have, and Sterling weasels out because he just can't resist the temptation to catch all of us?"

Sophie's bottom lip wobbled dangerously but she managed to pull it into a stubborn pout. "No. It could've worked. We could've found a way to make it work."

"Nate gave himself up for us knowing that we won't quit until we have him back."

"But when you lose the king, the game's over," said Sophie, the first tears rolling down her cheeks.

Eliot walked around the island and put his hands on her shoulders. "This ain't chess. We're getting him back. I promise you that."

Sophie leaned forward, nearly collapsing against Eliot's chest as her shoulders shook. He wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back and shoulders, finding that the sweater was even softer than it looked.

She wasn't one to show weakness, not for very long at least, and soon Eliot could feel her collecting herself. He was sure that when she stepped back, all trace of tears would be gone. Her hands moved down his arms as she pulled back slowly.

Her lips brushed his cheek, found his mouth and soon they were kissing. Her lips were soft and warm, perfect in every way except for the fact that this was the worst idea either of them had ever had. Eliot abruptly dropped his arms and cleared his throat as he stepped away.

"Can you excuse me." It was a statement, not a question, and Sophie could only watch with wide eyes as he backed away. When his feet hit the edge of the kitchen area, he turned and walked quickly out onto the balcony.

It was warmer outside, and more humid, but at least the change of venue gave him a second to catch his breath. He rested his hands heavily on the slick metal railing, then leaned forward until he was able to press his forehead against it. He stood for several seconds, hoping that the metal cooling his forehead could also cool his thoughts, ease some sense into his thick skull.

In the apartment, he could hear the click of Sophie's heels on the hardwood floors, then the pause as she hovered uncertainly near the sliding glass doors. He straightened up and turned around, leaning back against the railing with his hands in his pockets.

Thunder rumbled low through the city streets, like the warning growl of a dog. He tried to pay attention to that, but Sophie's sweater had slipped, the v-neck revealing enough cleavage to distract him.

"Come inside, Eliot, it's going to rain," she said, as she leaned against the doorframe, blocking the way.

He shook his head. "It's not going to rain yet."

"And you know that because? Let me guess... you dated a weather girl?" She stepped out onto the balcony and gave him a sly smile, tossing her hair back off her shoulder. He had the impression of a tiger coming in for the kill and didn't relish the idea of being anyone's prey.

"I think they prefer the term meteorologist, but no...some things, I just know because I know them," he said, automatically shifting his weight the way he did before a fight.

"Really? And what else do you know?" she said as she slowly closed the short distance between them.

"I know this is a bad idea. A really bad idea... like asking Parker-to-seduce-a-mark bad. Or asking-Hardison-to-dance bad."

She laughed as she stepped into his personal space, her arms loosely at her sides. "You better not let Hardison hear you bad-mouth his dancing."

"Sophie, I'm serious. This can only end bad, in the long run. We have to work together. The team's not finished yet, you know that, right?"

"I know, Eliot. You and me, we're both professionals. We can agree to terms and stick to them." Her voice was a seductive purr that invited him to let down his guard.

"One of them will find out. Probably Parker."

"Parker is at Agent Nevins' place, stealing anything that's not nailed down."

"Did she tell you that?"

"She didn't have to. I know her. Look, Eliot, no one is going to know," she insisted, running a hand over his bicep.

"I'll know." He pushed her back half a step and folded his arms, but wasn't surprised when she just stepped back and leaned into him, resting her elbows on his arms so she could press her forearms against his chest and idly trace a pattern on his neck.

"But you won't tell anyone. And neither will I."

She was mostly playing him. He knew that. Manipulating and conning, doing what she did best. But it was more than that. He could see something, hurt mixed with desperation and confusion, that couldn't be faked. The kiss with Nate and whatever he had or hadn't said to her on the phone, it had gotten to her. And now her eyes were pleading with him to put her out of her misery, at least for a little while.

"C'mon, Eliot, I thought you were a good southern gentleman. Don't you always give a lady what she wants?" asked Sophie, a teasing tone skipping through the words as her lips brushed his neck.

He pushed her back across the narrow balcony until her back hit the wall. He grabbed her hands and held them over her head, his only contact with her the thumbs and forefingers on her wrists.

"You trying to con me into this, Sophie?" he asked in a low growl.

She tried for an affronted tone, but he shut her down with one knowing look. "Maybe a little, but not entirely."

He leaned into her. "Tell me what you want then."

"I want to forget," she said, leaning forward to kiss him, but he pulled away.

"Forget what?"

"Everything."

"And you think I can do that for you?"

"I know you can," she said, her smile a challenge too taunting to resist.

He spun her around and pressed her against the wall. She turned her head to kiss him as his hands traveled over her body, the weight of him pressing against her. She reached back to touch him, but he blocked her hands, catching them and pinning them to the rough brick.

He kissed her neck, nipped the soft skin and then growled against her ear, "I'm going to ask you again. What do you want to forget?"

Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to answer and the word came out like a softly spoken prayer. "Nate."

Eliot dropped her hands and stepped back. "That's why this isn't going to work."

Sophie turned around slowly, her hands searching for purchase on the brick like she needed the support to maintain her balance.

"I'm not Nate and I'm not a placeholder, Sophie. I'm not sure what you want."

"I want you to distract me, Eliot. Make me forget. Make this bloody horrible day just disappear. Do you think you can do that?"

He pursed his lips and shrugged. Of course he _could_ do it. _Should_ he do it was an entirely different question with a completely different answer. He turned away.

"We all have our ways of dealing with things... Parker steals things. Hardison hacks or plays that stupid video game. Nate drinks," said Sophie, edging around and stepping back into his field of vision.

"And what do you think I do?"

"You....you cook. But sometimes, that's not enough. Sometimes, you go out to some random run-down bar and start a fight. Because the adrenalin, the pain, it helps you forget," she said, her words soft and sure, like she was reading from the pages of a well-known book.

"And so this is what you do, Sophie? Find some guy?" asked Eliot, his words carrying an edge that even he couldn't quite identify.

"No, usually I shop for shoes, but the stores are closed," she said with a small laugh.

"So how do you know this will help you forget?"

Her eyes moved over him with the intensity of a touch. "I just know."

"You just know," he muttered under his breath, unsure of what to say next.

"I know something else, too," she said, her voice changing slightly. "I know you could use the same thing."

"Could I?" he asked, not believing it for a minute. He needed this complication like he needed a hole in his damn head. He folded his arms and looked at her, daring her to convince him.

"You feel guilty and responsible."

"Is that right?" he asked, hoping his expression matched his cocky tone.

"Yes, Eliot. It is. Your responsibility is to keep Nate safe. Don't you want to forget the gun that you missed?"

He looked away. Yes, he wished he could forget it. Or maybe it was better to remember so that he never made that mistake again. But it was more than a simple missed gun. He should've seen Nate's endgame, should've been quicker in taking down the bad guys, should've found a way off that ship.

But this? Doing this, here, now, with Sophie? He'd be better off tracking down Sterling and pummeling the man until he was picking up all of his teeth with broken fingers. The downsides of that coping strategy were way more manageable than the one Sophie was proposing.

"That's nothing that a fifth of Jack won't help me forget," he said finally.

"You don't drink like that."

No, he didn't. But sometimes, he wished that he could. He didn't bother saying the words out loud because he knew that somehow, she'd already heard them in his thoughts.

She advanced on him quickly, taking a firm grasp of his forearms and pushing him over to the sole piece of furniture on the balcony: a low-slung Adirondack chair made of sturdy pine, stained a deep chestnut. She shoved him down and crouched in front him, using the arms of the chair to take her weight as she leaned in to kiss him. Her kiss was deep, searching, and just on the near side of frantic.

Her hands moved to his shirt and she gave a sharp tug, easily popping open the snaps. He broke off the kiss to give her a "what the hell" look. Her devious grin was all he needed to know that she'd have done the same thing with buttons, even...no _especially_ if that meant ruining the shirt.

She kissed him like she had something to prove. Her sharp nails raked over his chest, but she kept the contact between them limited so it was easy to trace the path of her hands: down his chest, softly over his bruised ribs, and then finally alighting on his belt buckle.

"Sophie," he breathed into her mouth, wishing like hell that it sounded more like the protest he'd intended than the breathy moan it had somehow become. She smiled and made a soft tsking sound before kissing a burning trail down his body. When the belt was undone and the zipper pulled down, she eased his cock out of his boxers while planting teasing kisses along his waistband.

Last chance to stop this, he thought, but then she deftly slipped his cock into her mouth, a firm hand around the base, and all of his thoughts disappeared.

He barely registered the first drops of rain landing on his chest. His fingers curled on the arm of the chair. She was good, soft and hot, not too sloppy, just the slightest edge of teeth, enough to get his attention but not enough to hurt. The thunder sounded nearer now, although he could just be confusing it with the rush of blood in his ears.

He was getting close and was about to warn her when she suddenly pulled away and stood up. By the time he managed to open his eyes, her leggings were already gone. The sweater followed as triple flash of lightning lit the sky. Any appreciative comment he might have made was lost in the thunder that followed. The storm had arrived and he wasn't in any shape to move.

Sophie climbed into his lap, somehow finding the room on the chair to put a knee on either side of his lap. She put her hands on his shoulders for balance.

"Wait, Sophie, I don't have anything out here."

"Do you trust me, Eliot?"

He suppress a groan. In his mind, trust and Sophie were a bad combination. Plus, his head was full of a lifetime of warnings about the dangers of unsafe sex. But then, wasn't sex with a grifter co-worker, outside on a balcony, when she was in love with the boss you'd just allowed to get shot and arrested, the very definition of unsafe sex? Would a condom really make that much of a difference? In for a bad decision penny, in for the whole goddamn pound.

"Sure darlin'," he said, certain that she could spot the lie but just as certain that it didn't matter to her, which was confirmed seconds later when she smoothly slid down on him. He closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath. She tugged his hair sharply, a wordless demand for his attention.

He opened his eyes, her half-lidded eyes and half-opened mouth the picture of desire. She held him there, transfixed by her gaze, as the rain fell harder, and the thunder and lightning were nearly continuous, occurring in such rapid succession that it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began.

At first, he rested his hands lightly on her hips, giving gentle suggestions, but it became clear that she wanted to run the show. He smiled as he surrendered his hold on her, his hand sliding down and over until his thumb eased onto her clit, rubbing lazy circles that were just slightly off the rhythm she had set.

Her eyes closed and he reached up with his free hand to grab her chin, a silent demand for her to look at him. When she did, he let his hand wander freely until he wasn't able to coordinate that much independent movement. He watched her, rolling her hips and moving above him, her crooked half-smile giving the impression that she knew all of his secrets and still wanted him anyway.

The rain was easing off when she leaned forward and kissed his chin, his jaw, his neck. Her lips found his ear, her breath hot and fast. She nipped him and then whispered his name as she came, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He lasted another minute before he buried his face in the crook of her neck and bit her softly as he finally let go.

------------------------------

When Eliot arrived at Nate's apartment the next morning, Hardison was in the same spot on the couch, wearing the same clothes as the day before. The only indication that he'd moved at all in the last nineteen hours was a pile of empty orange soda bottles and gummy frog wrappers.

"You mind, man?" asked Eliot, flashing Hardison an angry glare. "This still is another man's home, you know."

Hardison ignored him. Eliot scooped up the trash, grumbling, and carried it into the kitchen, where Parker was perched on a stool, eating cereal. She grinned at him, the sort of shit-eating grin that made him worry about untellable secrets.

"What are you so happy about?" asked Eliot, careful to keep the paranoia out of his voice. There was no way that she could know.

Parker giggled and reached into her front shirt pocket, pulling out a handful of plastic keys, which she deposited one at a time on the counter. "Agent Nevis' home. Office. Evidence lock up. Handcuffs."

"You made copies of the keys, instead of stealing them, so she'll never know they're missing? Parker, that's genius. Nice job."

She beamed like a kid who'd just gotten straight-As on her report card, which made him smile.

Eliot was settling onto the couch when Sophie swept in, hair perfect and make-up done. Her clothes were pressed and the only words he could think of to describe her were "well put together."

She sat down in the chair. "So, Hardison, what've you got for us?"

"I'm not ready yet. I just have to organize a few downloads-"

"Hardison," warned Eliot.

"Hold your horses, mister. This isn't as simple as punching people."

Eliot pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes in frustration.

"How was dinner?" asked Parker as she sat on the arm of Sophie's chair.

"Oh, you know," said Sophie with an airy wave.

"No, I don't. That's why I asked."

"Parker, you've been to dinner at Eliot's before. You know exactly what it's like."

Parker expressed her frustration at being misunderstood with an impatient puff of breath that ruffled her bangs. "What did he make? I wasn't there last night, remember?"

"Yes, quite. Veal picatta with a salad and roast potatoes."

"Oh, I love Eliot's roast potatoes."

"Yes, so do I," said Sophie, the dirty smile there and gone in a flash, solely for Eliot's eyes.

"Hey, gourmands, if y'all are done drooling over Eliot's mad cooking skillz, can we get on with the briefing?" interrupted Hardison.

"Yeah, let's get on with the briefing," said Eliot, his brusque tone all business while the glint in his eyes hinted that he hadn't much minded the drooling.

Sophie settled back and turned her attention to the video screen. Yes, thought Eliot, they were both professionals. They'd made an agreement and would stick to the terms, but he suspected that they would both always remember the night that they'd helped each other forget.


End file.
